cold war confessional part i: dream log (april player plot)

[pillz]

WHO: Everyone who wants to play
WHERE: The privacy (not) of your character's mind!
WHEN: April 7-21, 2017— backtags welcome
WHAT: ImPorts find themselves sucked into a shared dreamspace characterized by an alternate history, where the Russians succeeded in conquering the United States in February 2016.
WARNINGS: War (including photos of real life military occupation), death, murder, experimentation/body horror, indoctrination, brainwashing, psychological torture, metaphorical suicide. Please warn in subject headers appropriately.
On March 7, 2017, your character goes to sleep. When they 'awaken,' it's June 2016 again.

April Seventh, Two Thousand and Seventeen

Cold War Confessional I

Soviet America Celebrates 5th Month

Insurgency Running Like Rats!

Life Goes On

In this reality, every other street corner in every major city has Soldats posted at a military checkpoint, heavily armed with nullifiers and firearms, in green uniforms. Russia's tri-colored flag flies high over bank fronts and municipal buildings. Propaganda plays all-day across the televisions, spliced into advertisements for kitchenware and new cars— it's cheaper to fly to Moscow than to the opposite coast, and the vote on whether to standardize American History in classrooms. And yet, day-to-day, you can still get your Cafe Americano from your favorite cafe down the street, unemployment rates are low, that trade embargo that was going to impede the import of German beers isn't happening after all, and the housing market is going up.

Hell, they pushed curfew back to 9:00PM last week. Squint a little, and our overlords seem generous. Maybe it's not so bad after all?

Violence In The Streets

But the Resistance knows better. There's new intel every day, a laboratory facility in each city, and the glass rooms in there hold horrors, razor wire and nullifier technology woven into the transparent walls. They've been refining the technology, ever since one captured ImPort shattered through her cage despite the suppression of her superstrength and cut herself to ribbons. She'd thought that it was better than the fate of vivsection. It is not entirely clear whether she was right.

So they fight.

Small strike teams and guerilla tactics, paper notes and skip-code hidden in loose brick because nobody knows what the Soviet technopaths can do, snipers on priority Soldat targets. Clandestine rendezvouses at restaurants and quiet parks. Where will you be when they come for you?

Day Three

And on the third day, something changes. Visions of another world.

Soviet government spin teams latch onto these stories like parasites. A terrorist attack— hallucinogens in the water, madness driven by desperate Resistance members seeking to break the focus of loyal citizens, to disrupt the hard-won Soviet peace. The stories vary, the explanations seem as believable as a women who can breathe fire and children returned from the dead, well within the sinister abilities of ImPorters or fiendish technology.

But it doesn't change the fact at, for those who experience it, the flashbacks to strange faces, unlikely roles, everything from FANPORT 2016 to giant Uncle Sam smashing through the walls-- leaves one with complex emotions and an unlikely sense of deja-vu.

Choose Your Own Adventure

I do not know all the potential adventures you could be having. The choice is yours.

Comments

[Soldat] Adam Parrish | The Raven Cycle

[hondoyota]

[Soldat] (cw: language, some violence, a little blood) Locked to admemoriam + nightmarist

[hondoyota]

[It had taken Adam some time to track down the traitor.

He knows that they had been comrades once, though his specific memory of the facts was blurry. He knows that the traitor, Noah Czerny, has gone rogue, betraying his fellow soldats and disappearing into hiding. Coward.

Adam has been assigned to hunt him down because of his past history with the traitor. Easy enough to do. He dresses like a rebel, using an oversized jean jacket and a scarf to give his torso enough bulk to hide the weapons. Fellow soldats would leave him alone with a quick flash of credentials, while rebel sympathizers were swayed by his unassuming demeanor and shy smile. He used whatever persuasion was needed, whatever roles he could fake, and Adam was surprised by how good he was. He could be harmless when needed, commanding when needed, and fragile when needed, acting the part of a traumatized victim on the run.

Sensing human life was impossible with his powers, but Adam could sense pulses in energy conducted throughout networks. He had good intel that Czerny was in this city, maybe even in one of his old haunts.

Maybe, specifically, in the now-abandoned restaurant that was siphoning just a tiny bit too much power from the energy grid. It's not a leak, it's a pull. Maybe someone left a microwave plugged in.

Signaling to a couple of soldats who had come with him, he nods toward the empty restaurant.

His grunts shoot out a couple of the windows, studding a few more bullets along the front of the shop for good measure.

Not wasting any time on his entrance, Adam vaults himself over the frame of one of the windows. A glass shard cuts through the thick fabric of his glove, drawing blood from his palm.]

Fuck, fuck, fuck. [ Adam hisses, ducking down out of sight of the windows and scrambling forward.

The blood on his hand drips down his fingertips, warm against his cold skin. Adam slides the hand inside his jacket and presses it loosely against his side so that the flowing blood will color his t-shirt and create the illusion that his wounds are worse than they are.]

Noah!

[He grits his teeth, trying to be quiet but audible. He wants his voice to carry urgency, desperation, and hope.

What's hope like?]

Noah? Noah.

[Another burst of gunfire from outside. Adam ducks his head down, darting into the back room as his teammates come in through the front doors, discussing strategy in Russian and generally acting oafish but intimidating, as Adam had instructed.

He doesn't want to risk capturing Czerny in the wild. He is too slippery. If they have to, if he sees through the deception, they will. Much better if Adam can walk him into a secure holding facility before the traitor knows what's happening.]

Fuck. Noah. Please be here.

[Something shatters in the front room of the restaurant. Adam resists the urge to roll his eyes.]

Yuichiro Hyakuya l Owari no Seraph {Soldat}

[dejerate]

Soldat; Demon or Seraph

[Maybe he had fought. Initially. But that was a while ago now. Since having been captured. It isn't like this would be any less than what he might have waiting for him back home, if either the military or the vampires were to catch Yuichiro. Using him for his power. For his bond with his demon and that power, signified by his markings that his demon is possessing him, let alone the destruction his seraph gene could manage, to attempt to use that to intimidate others towards their cause.

Of course, he'd try take other imPorts - the Resistance members, alive to be taken back to the Soviets to deal with. Unless something might happen to really set him off. In which case, if he does lose control, he might actually go for a kill. Though after this, he's vulnerable, passing out after allowing his demon or seraph to take control, wherever that might leave him, even in the middle of the street.]

Day Three:

[There's a flash of blue. Blue eyes, and pale blonde hair. That smile. And then those fangs. Yuu doesn't know what to make of it. Let alone how conflicting that is. Why he would feel so strongly about this other boy, who he knows isn't among the other soldat soldiers. Let alone these other memories of this Heropa place. So many events he had supposedly forgotten from back there. Driving an ice cream truck. Familiar faces in such a different light, such different feelings towards them it makes his chest hurt.

It's...overwhelming. So he tries to push it aside. Before his demon uses it to take control again. This is probably just another trick of the resistance group, right? Probably. That had to be it.

So he tries to ignore it. Tries to focus on heading back out there regardless to do what he can for the Soviets as he is ordered. This doesn't really change anything. How could it? It's just a trick....

A trick he doesn't approve of, taking it out on any Resistance member he might find. It's clearly their fault, after all.]

Wildcard:

[If anyone had other ideas, feel free to roll with a different starter and I can go with that.]

day one

[allforyuu]

[Perhaps it was a bit cowardly to look for weaknesses in their formation and take them down that way. Mika saw it as practical. The faster he could get through their defences, the better. He didn't want them to get an overly good look at him.]

[It worked, in either case. Mika had found a good vantage point from where he could listen in on what the soldats were saying. Go west. Reinforcements. A destructive demon on the battle field.]

[That was interesting. He followed their line of vision, touching the hilt of his sword. That 'destructive demon' as they called him didn't look like much. A scruffy teenager. Mika knew better than to be deceived by looks though.]

[He could take him, he thought. Picking up a pebble, he threw it towards the boy to distract him.]

hinami fueguchi → soldat

[leaflets]

general + import following (optional capture) + open to resistance members too

[leaflets]

[ Despite being on the side of the Russians now, Hinami is still frequently seen in Heropa as always. She continues as if life never changed, doesn't even blink an eye at things like the curfews or soldiers. She's quieter now, though. More subdued. Even the clothes she wears on a daily basis, once bright colors and soft layers of dresses and skirts, have become more solemn. Rather than friendliness and nervous cheer, there's an air of danger around her now.

It becomes clear why if she's spotted following unbrainwashed imPorts around. Not that it's easy to figure out it's Hinami, with the mask and outfit she always dons before hand. It's the mask of the "Clover Reaper", a rather silly sounding name for someone the Russians recognized as a dangerous but useful asset. Young and harmless looking enough to blend in without looking suspicious, but her nature as a Ghoul far makes up for what she lacks in size and experience. With Kaneki, they're certainly one of the more commonly used pair of Soldats, typically sent out together to secure imports or Resistance members and with a track record to fear.

If there's one thing Hinami is under the Russian regime, it's good at her job. She'd been successfully brainwashed during the original invasion, and the subsequent "education" and the pain it brought has been more than enough to keep her in line and doing what is asked of her. Bring back any imPorts she can, and help to quell the resistance for the good of the nation. Failure will result in re-education.

She stays visible if only to scope out those who may still be around but free of the Russian's control.

Which may be why you've had that creeping feeling of eyes on you for days now. The sensation of being followed even in a crowd. As crazy as it might make you feel, once you're well and truly alone it becomes true: A figure appears almost out of nowhere, blocking the exit to wherever it is you are. ]

SOLDAT ☭ Ronan Lynch

[nightmarist]

1 ДНЯ : RESISTANCE SAFEHOUSE 《 OPEN TO ALL 》

[Ronan was theirs from the very beginning. Like so many new and returning imPorts, he was captured straight out of the Porter and reprogrammed - a process which required him to endure endless bouts of torture and brainwashing, stubborn soul that he is. Was, rather. It's all gone now, his rebellious spirit and his creativity and his faith and his heart.

What's left is the shell, this mountain of a boy with deadly hands and the power to command nightmares. Today, as he raids one particular safehouse reportedly hiding a small group of resistance members, he's brought a herd of skeletal nightmare creatures with him, horse-like vultures or vulture-like horses with sharp teeth ready to snap the limbs of anyone who attempts to fight or flee. He's equipped with a gun but he doesn't use it, preferring to tear from room to room and fight with his bare hands. He kicks open one door at a time, his nightmares screeching with delight behind him, eager to sink their teeth into flesh.]

2 ДНЯ : EXPERIMENT FACILITY 《 OPEN TO ALL 》

[On the second day of the dream, Ronan is back at the Soviet facility, assisting with the reprogramming of the imPorts captured the day before. He's no stranger to the place. Even though his own reprogramming was completed over a month ago, he's still regularly brought in for observation, as scientists work to puzzle out the function of his brain and how exactly he's capable of creating the things that he does. To be the Greywaren in captivity is everything he had ever feared it would be, right down to the spinal tests and cranial surgeries. His shaved head still bears fresh stitches from the latest experiment.

Fortunately, he's not the subject today. He's merely helping to prepare the next one. He steps into the cell with an electrified cattle prod in one hand, ready to subdue the prisoner if they're foolish enough to attack before he can cuff them for relocation. Nullifiers are on as always, but they're imperfect. He's expecting a fight.]

ASSIGNED HOUSING《 CLOSED TO KAVINSKY 》

[When Ronan returns to his cold concrete box of an apartment every night, he has only one thing to look forward to: Kavinsky. There is no light in his life anymore, but Kavinsky is the closest thing to it. He is a secret that Ronan has managed to keep when all the others were dragged out of him and dissected. As soon as Ronan steps into the apartment and sheds his guns and his body armor, Kavinsky is waiting to greet him. Ronan reaches out to snag him by the waist, dipping down to nuzzle against Kavinsky's temple and breathe in the scent of him before anything else.]

3 ДНЯ : IN THE STREETS 《 OPEN TO ALL 》

[On the third day, Ronan begins to understand. Either that, or he begins to go mad. Because when he wakes up, the world feels thinner somehow. And by the time he's reporting for duty, nothing around him feels real at all. The dream is whispering to him in a language only he understands. The walls say his name but no one else hears. He steps outside for air but the wind is warning him: Greywaren, remember you are dreaming.

At first, he thinks it must be a lie. He already woke up this morning, in his concrete apartment. He feels certain that he did. He would know, better than anyone, whether he's asleep or awake. Wouldn't he?

Unless, of course, he's sharing a dream with a fellow dream thief. Someone like that could be powerful enough to fool him.

Ronan stumbles through the streets like a drunk, forgetting the role he's supposed to play even though he's still in uniform. In costume. He looks around desperately, searching for anyone else who looks aware in some way, but he has to be careful. His panic can so easily twist the dream into a nightmare.]

me!!

[pillz]

Здравей скъпа, [kavinsky says. arms around ronan's waist and his pointy nose on his chin, his eyes slitting with something that might be greed, that is unmistakably happiness. they don't sell ax body spray in soviet america, which is possibly the only good thing about this reality— he smells like frankincense and myrrh soap, and mostly, he smells like ronan himself. he adapted well to hell, for reasons that will become clear

someday.]

Baked a potato in the toaster oven. It's rocket science. Be fuckin' impressed.

commander shepard | resistance

[sassguard]

In this nightmare, Commander Shepard’s given up.

Oh, his body’s still around. Still breathing, still pushing blood around cybernetics and reconstructed veins and organs, though he’d find it hard to pass under the radar these days — he isn’t looking so hot, the orange cracks crawling through his skin an accurate reflection of his state of mind these days. He helps the Resistance by providing muscle and escort where he can, intel squeezed from eavesdropping on criminals and thieves that are trying to build their networks around the restriction of the occupation.

But he simply doesn’t care. Any semblance of something resembling a normal life was over months ago. Shepard’s lost count of how many of the Russian soldiers he’s taken out with a bullet or a crushed the air out of with his biotics. Unlike other members of the Resistance, his face is too distinct and his sins too great for him to disappear into quiet obscurity, living a normal life while helping where he can. He can’t use the Porters to hop from place to place like the others, and Heropa’s got too few places to hide. So he’s hunkered down in Maurtia Falls, sleeping in whatever shitholes he can find, working the jobs that don’t care if their employees wear dark goggles and a bandanna over their face, just that they do the work.

---

a. park rendezvous (ota)
Shepard’s supposed to be meeting someone, but they’re running late. He’s sitting slouched on a park bench, and luckily the light is bright enough that he can get away with wearing a huge pair of aviators that cover the pinpoint red lights in his eyes and make the glow of his scars less visible. With his hoodie tugged up over his head, something nondescript and grey instead of distinctly emblazoned with all the N7 crap).

Right now, he’s watching the dog park. Six months ago, he would be in the dog park, but he had to let Mako go. She's too easily recognized for him to keep — and standing out is the last thing he needs to do right now. He keeps a casual eye on the passersby, keeping a sharp eye out for any trouble and looking for his contact. Could be an escort to a safe house, a discreet transfer of a data stick, or someone telling him they need muscle for a covert op or escort.

Doesn’t matter much which it is. All the missions bleed together.

b. mission (ota)
At night, when it calls for it, Shepard sheds the attempt at civilian clothing and simply dons his armor. It’s distinct, and he needs to dim the glowing lights of his visor so he doesn’t make too much of a target of himself, but it helps him move more quickly and quietly. He ranges ahead at first, then circles back to whoever he’s with tonight, nodding tersely.

“Looks like it’s all clear. Let’s move out.”

c. safehouse (resistance or neutral)
Most of the time, Shepard sleeps in homeless shelters, or abandoned buildings. Maurtia Falls is one of the few places he can get away with that shit, since there’s too many nooks and crannies even for the occupiers to explore them all in one night, curfew or no curfew. Sometimes, though, he’ll actually make use of whatever safe houses the Resistance has managed to pull together — the basement of a neutral sympathizer’s house, or a forgotten facility that’s been outfitted with basic first-aid kits and rations.

Whatever the case, when he enters and sees someone’s already inside? He frowns slightly, then shakes his head.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize someone else was here. I should go.”

---

On the third day, things begin to fray. And then after the seventh day, everything changes completely.

[ ooc: I’ll match prose/format; if you want to do something specific or have me get up a starter come and plot with me OOCly! Hit me up there for any RL-side shenanigans too. Shepard will become a lucid dreamer actively trying to wake people up from this staring April 13th-ish, so if you want these prompts with a Shepard conscious of the WTFery of this world (and WTF-inducing to other Resistance members) and wanna forward-date a thread, let me know!

Soldat characters would be aware that Shepard killed a brainwashed Soldat Kaidan Alenko sometime in April 2016. ]

a.

[glowsferatu]

[ And, as if to snap him out of his reverie, a very tall woman passes by pushing a rusted and overstuffed shopping cart, muttering under her breath as she looks at the dogs. Of course there are dogs, something cute in the background to distract them from the cute at the forefront. She probably wouldn't seem like much, with her matted and wiry black hair, and large, ratty coat, but the horns coming out of her head are hard to miss.

When she turns to look at him, her gaunt face looks a little less human than he might have expected. ]

They aren't real, you know. Not that dogs don't dream, but, well. [ She cuts herself off, spreading her hands in a shrug. ]

<<SOLDAT>> Tony Stark | CW for violence, brainwashing. Later tags

[liverletdie]

It didn't take long to reprogram someone who was predisposed to being a terrible person. Once the code was cracked -- once the tech side of him had been hacked, everything else fell into line as swift as anyone. And the advantage was that it didn't diminish the intelligence that the Soviet government so desired. It was a victory on so many levels -- perhaps retribution for their failures in another world -- but it was one they'd revel in.

And then they'd stolen a symbiote. And a brain like his? It was easy to come up with something new. A suit that was just as alive as he was, without the problematic influence, without the life, living but not alive -- tech spliced with a living being into a dark suit with bright lights. It was like watching a shadow come alive, when people saw him. And that was really mostly in the end, wasn't it?

At least most of the time, he had a partner to curb the... worst of his instincts. He wasn't opposed to killing like the Batman was, and it showed in the malicious way he dealt with rebels and hiding imports alike. The suit was intimidating enough, in flight, and it was far too often that the import would slam to the ground from out of nowhere -- a boom boom boom the only warning, tearing through the sound barrier, before he landed with all the force of a missile, cracking the ground, before he'd focus in.

He did chase after as many as he could find -- or as many as he was ordered to take out. And he did. Probably more than was redeemable, at this point, and the smile on his face every time he did it said, very clearly, that he enjoyed it, in some twisted way. Or a part of him did.

After all, it was logical, that imports that didn't comply would be taken in, wasn't it?

---

[ Feel free to use whatever format you would like. I'd like to open this to creativity! If you would like both Bats and Stark, let 13 know and I'm sure that can be arranged! If you have something you'd like to work out -- feel free to message me on plurk at hundreds. Even if you haven't plotted anything out, please feel free to go wild! Be creative, or if you'd like me to arrange a starter, let me know, and I'd be happy to! ]

[the_caped_crusader]

[Once upon a time, working with Tony Stark would have been an anathema for Batman, but these days he found there were very few he could tolerate to work with. The fact was, their minds worked on such an exceptionally similar wavelength that the proficiency and quality with which they accomplished tasks was nearly unmatched. And though Batman's cave had gone untouched for years, though he had very little need of the use of technology now, he was one of the few who could talk to Tony without the other having to simplify himself. They were two sides of the same coin, light and dark, and while Iron Man was all smiles during the hunt, Batman was well known for his perpetual frown.

Inside the well lit, palatial observation room of Stark Tower, Batman manifests into a dark corner of the room, what little there may be. He avoided the light-- not because it hurt him, but many closer to him, or those who could remember him from before the turn, speculate it's because he can barely stand to see what he's become.]

Anthony. Lights, please.

han solo | resistance

[carbonfrozen]

ota

[carbonfrozen]

[one.]

[By day, Han's an ordinary, disaffected taxi driver. Sure, his car sometimes breaks down, and sure, every interaction he has with the Soldats is brief and full of tension, but he doesn't have any secrets, right? He's just the guy who drives people around, has been since he showed up with the most useless powerset ever.

And maybe he's a little bit cocky. Especially when his car suddenly breaks down again, somewhere in the worse parts of town, just after getting past a military checkpoint.]

Dammit! [He slaps the sides of the steering wheel, clambers out of the car.] Not again, not again, come on— [He rushes to the side where his passenger currently is.] Sorry about that—something broke again. Just sit tight while I figure out what's wrong. [He pops the hood open. Seemingly, there's nothing untoward going on here, but what Han is really doing is checking for bugs, explosive devices, anything like the Empire might've used to eliminate a pesky rebellion.

A rebellion like the one Han's a part of.]

[two]

[They've got a saying, where Han's from. At least, that's what he'll claim when he says it—never tell me the odds. In truth, he already knows their odds are getting worse and worse by the day: their numbers, never all that high to begin with, are dwindling all the more with each day.

Still, Han does what he can. His ability, seemingly useless, means he can stow guns, medical supplies, and whatever else the resistance might need in any car he can drive, and that he can out-drive the Russians with ease if needed, even in places he shouldn't know. At night, or whenever he's sure he won't be seen, he sticks a cap on his head, pulls it low, and stashes some very illegal things in secret compartments that were not there before he stole the car.

Or, you know, liberated it. Reappropriated for the resistance. Sounds nicer.

All kinds of trouble you can get into, smuggling like he is. He looks around his surroundings, as if checking to see if there's anyone around who could identify him. He climbs into the driver's seat, shuts the door, and pulls away from the curb.]

Aurican | RESIST

[ofgoldenfoil]

[ A young dragon that is about as long as a school bus, as well as eight feet tall with glimmering golden scales is going to stand out as a resistance fighter, but Aurican is not a dumb hoarding beast of from tales of old. He learns fast and knows the intimate value of guerrilla fighting.

His tactics are not very honorable, methods he would have rarely used in a peaceful world. ]

AMBUSH

[ It's a hint of irony that his nestmate Darlantan in a thousand years will do this technique.

He flies high and tall, until he appears like a sparrow against the half-moon. And then, like that, he changes into his human form, a small boy, nude. He curls onto himself into a smaller target as he falls.

He falls until he's at the target - a traveling caravan of Soviet soldiers. Just a hundred feet above them, he changes back into an golden angel of death, flames spewing out his snarling maw. Men shriek, wreathed in fire, and cars are in flame. Aurican flares his wings and he quickly flies out of range. He won't be going back for a second strike - these are just one-time attacks. They are mean to hamper, to strike fear. ]

SAFEHOUSE

[ He's a small boy, dressed plainly: a white shirt, blue jeans, a grey jacket. He's quiet, looking at the one thing he managed to save over the duration of this hell: a class photo of his first grade class. He knows that at least most of them are still alive, still living our their childhoods. Aurican doesn't have a childhood - he was never even a child. He's a dragon of Paladine, and he bears a heavy burden to bring the light. He looks up when someone gets close to them, folding the picture back to his jacket. ]

When is the next mission?

HIDE

[ Aurican knows his strengths, his weaknesses especially. He can do things better as a boy than a dragon. And one of the things he can do is to hide.

Aurican and his native resistance fighters were overwhelmed and scattered. Something - someone - is hunting him with more persistence than he has ever encountered. It was bound to happen sooner or later, he surmises. Something will always be larger, stronger, smarter than him.

It's just a matter of time for him to find a way to get out of predicament, or he doesn't.

He's running as a boy through an abandoned car factory, rusted or rotting or both, cars still in line, waiting for someone to claim them. He thinks he hears a footstep coming closer and he hides, crawling underneath an abandoned car. He slows his breath, his heart, thinking back to the time when he mediates, a favored pastime. ]

AWAKEN

[ His memories are changing, he thinks. It is distressing to Aurican. He knows someone else, but they are different back then, but what happened here? Sometimes he can recall of going one place and being in another, not in the place he intended.

And when the memories of other times - of Uncle Sam, of a haggard man with a crossbow, of flying around and talking to an older man in a trench coat - start seeping in, and he doesn't know what is going on. He cries instead, he's confused. He doesn't know what to do.

It's a typical sight to see a boy crying a sidewalk. But the visions honestly frighten him, and a frighten dragon is not something can be handled well. One wrong phrase, one wrong action, and he might lash out. Sometimes violently. ]

OPEN

[ OOC: an open prompt! go nuts. ]

[governorkang]

[Sometimes Kang goes with Aurican on his ambushes. Usually, he's dropped off somewhere nearby to take advantage of the confusion and fire a shot or two of his own without being detected, and they rendezvous at a safe house. On a few of them, he's had the opportunity to fire directly from the dragon's back.

It's a little more nerve-wracking riding a dragon now that he's wingless and unable to glide to safety, but at least this one doesn't purposely try to shake him off.

Two more soldiers taken down by bullets, and he slips away silently down the alley. The Resistance has weapons stashed all over the city, so after he's rid of that, he walks right through the Russian checkpoints and heads back to the nearest safe house to wait.]

Batman | SOLDAT

[the_caped_crusader]

[9 PM. Curfew. The sun steadily dropped behind the backdrop of the city, and the golden pink hue of the sky settled into dusk, which settled into night.

The streets were quiet after dark, with only an ominous howl of the wind through the empty city. If people ever talked about being afraid of your own shadow these days, it was because of him. He was relieved of the restrictions of his aging body years ago when he'd become the new proprietor of the Shadowlands-- an ancient, primordial realm of darkness that has existed since before the dawn of creation.

Rumors stirred that if he caught you, nobody would ever see you again, you would just disappear like you had never existed at all. It was hard to tell what was exaggerated fiction and what was real, but people would tell you stories about imPorts running through the streets, small groups of four or five, and that number would dwindle without a scream or a fight, five would become four, four would become three, until they just weren't there at all. Poof.

And then there's you-- are you safe? Lampposts flicker along the streets like tiny beacons of safety in the sea of darkness around you. If you stare long enough, you may just notice the darkness staring back at you.]

--

(OOC: OTA. Please feel free to hit me up with literally any prompt and I will throw myself at it, whether it has to do with the setting above or not. If you'd like a group thread with me and any other SOLDAT players in particular, we can work that out! PM or PP me on Plurk and we can talk. :D)

[darkpants_warmfeeling]

[Comrade Jacob can only hope to one day be as efficient and as feared in his duties as the Batman is. Of course, he doesn't have primordial shadow powers to make his enemies literally disappear with, but Jacob can appreciate that it's not the shadow that makes the Batman such a legend. It's tactics, psychology, and ruthlessness: all good traits for a soldier (or soldat) to have.

They say the Batman only works with a select few in his black ops squad, like the equally-feared Iron Man. It's not like Jacob can just approach him in the base cafeteria to talk shop. But what Jacob can do is plan tonight's patrol route to overlap with the areas the Bat prowls. Tonight, he walks through the shadows armed and clad in body armour, equally alert for signs of Resistance activity or a chance to spot the Bat at work.]

Zatanna | Resistance

[zee_zatara]

Laying low wasn't something that came naturally to Zatanna, but it came to her fast. Magic helped. It wasn't easy, per se, to transport messages the way she did- she no longer had the camouflage of the harmless entertainer to hide behind, things were a bit more complicated than hiding notes in ballet shoes.

Spells that made secret correspondence appear to be nothing but harmless work orders or to-do lists until they were in the right hands, read by candlelight.

And for the daring, transfiguration. Need to get somewhere under the radar? If you can make it in a few hours at the speed of a rabbit or even a mouse with a few charms for luck, she could help you out.

She couldn't help but feel, sometimes, like it was pointless. Two men she loved were both so consumed by this darkness- one enveloped by it, the other fighting tooth and bloody nail to strike at it any way she could.

And today, drawing from her father's tarot deck, the cards had revealed nothing. Literally nothing. The garishly bright illustrations were solid, inky black.

[Open to folks seeking to send messages, or other spells to keep themselves hidden. Or... others. Come at me.]

[heckblazer]

[ Yeah, speaking of tooth and bloody nail.


She might hear the jangling of keys in the lock and the boom of the safehouse door opening - solid oak, because of course Zee would. It's a modestly-sized cottage, but they keep well-stocked and warded. And when John isn't stumbling in and out of it covered in blood and ash, it looks all the world like a local's quaint summer home.

The door shuts again, with cursing in that familiar accent of his. Then his tone switches to something much more purposeful as he utters incantations, reinforcing the warding on the door. She might hear his step, heavy and clumsy even for how skinny he is, the sound of feet on the floor erratic rather than the predictable rhythm one uses when walking stably. She might smell the blood and charcoal as he approaches. She might see how he stumbles and paws for the wall as he enters the study, trying to pretend he isn't overwhelmed by some sort of pain. The gritting of his teeth is disguised as a wicked grin. ]

Well, labor camp isn't gonna be assembling more train cars any time soon. Should be on the news by tonight. Maybe revisit the crime scenes to toast marshmallows, if you like.

Sherlock Holmes | Soldat | OTA (TW: Drowning, torture)

[thevictoriandetective]

He didn't remember when they took him.

He didn't remember how confused he was, suddenly appearing in what could only be expressed as an 'entire new world,' gifted with 'super-powers,' how bewildered he was when he was forced to sit and watch endless videos with his eyes propped open, told they had his friends and they would kill them if they didn't comply. He didn't remember the pain when he tried to fight back, breaking him down, the days blending into one another until he didn't know anything, anymore. He was a tough one, they had said, but his powers and his intellect were too valuable to give up on. The psychics they had in their employ raided his memories, discovering that as much pain as he was able to endure physically, it was his mind and heart that held the key to manipulating him. For Sherlock Holmes, his heart was both one of his greatest strengths and weaknesses. Once they could manipulate that, they would have him.

He didn't remember how they used his memories against him, twisting them, twisting him into something horrible. Once he had been close to becoming like his sister, unable--or unwilling to understand emotions. Now, every time he thought about caring, every time he thought about the love he had for his friends, his mind snapped shut, saving him from the pain. Sentiment was pain. Sentiment would hurt him. Sentiment was the Enemy. And therefore he wouldn't, couldn't allow himself to care. Mercy was for the weak.

His heart had been burned out of him.

Sherlock, once properly molded and pliable, would become a terrifyingly effective Soldat. He was already quite skilled, and it was just an ounce of a push to make him even better. He was almost just as effective as the telepaths in figuring out who were resistance fighters. His uncanny deductive abilities were more than useful. And, he would kill easily, silently, without remorse. Sometimes he would use a gun, and sometimes he would use his powers. Being able to breathe underwater lent a certain horrific bent to those unlucky souls he happened to catch near a body of water. Being able to manipulate water made for several equally horrible deaths. Sometimes he would drown a man on land with the water from a single cup. His success rate was very high, and it was said that if Holmes was after you, you were a dead person walking.

Day 1

All that mattered was the work.

Destroying the resistance, that's all that mattered. They were trying to ruin the clean, orderly way of things, and that was unacceptable. The safety of the state and of the people were at stake here, and Sherlock was very good at his work.

"Where are your friends?" His voice was flat, cold, unemotional. As if holding a man up by a swirling ring of water around his neck, ten feet off the ground, was something one did every day.

Well, for him, it probably was.

The bald-headed resistance fighter spewed out a few choice words, and spat on Sherlock's eye. The Soldat blinked, and a slight smirk crossed his face. It was true, he did allow himself some small pleasures, and he would certainly enjoy killing him. He wiped the spittle out of his eye with a gloved finger.

It was no big deal. He could always find another Resistance fighter.

Sherlock conjured up another ball of water from the puddle behind him. The dark alleyway was empty. Not that anyone would care if his victim screamed. Minding your own business was the best way to stay alive in this world.

"Last chance."

"I'd rather die!"

A shrug. "Very well." The water boiled as Sherlock used his abilities to pressurize it, and sent the water blasting in a very tightly-bound spray of water, straight through his heart. It was like a bullet, and the man went down in a heap as the Soldat released his hold on the water-ring propping his neck up.

A sigh as he sent a message via his communicator to the clean-up crew. It would have been better to take him in alive, but...ah well.

Day 2

Sherlock wore black, a buttoned-up coat with a high, prim collar. He could have been anyone on the street, but there was a look in his eye that made him stand out from others. That distinct coldness, a lack of fear, and a terrific posture kept most passersby a couple feet away from him at all times.

He didn't mind. It wasn't like he was lonely.

He wasn't sure what the word lonely even meant. Probably something that happened to traitors and enemies of the state.

Still, even seasoned killers got hungry, and Sherlock stepped up to his favorite cafe. A gloved hand pressed against the glass door, bells tinkling, as he walked in.

He sees it. It's easy to tell, if you were equipped with the skills he had. A skip-code, arranged by the headlines of newspapers that were sat on each table. It was such a clever ruse, they probably thought. Especially for a cafe that was frequented by a known Soldat. The cafe always had newspapers on each table, no one would notice at thing.

Except him.

"Rendevous at Midnight, Red Street, 4th brick, 50,000?" Sherlock blurted out loud, and every single patron in the cafe, turned to look at him. Some were ordinary citizens, and seemed nervous and confused. The waitress dropped a glass, breaking it. A man in a brown coat dashed for the back room instantly, and Sherlock conjured up every last drop of soda from the fifteen-odd glasses in the room, sending tendrils of liquid after him, wrapping around his arms and legs and dragging him back to the center of the cafe.

"Idiots. I'm afraid you're all going to have to be taken in for questioning."

Day 3

Deep waters.

Sherlock's hit with the flashbacks when he's trying to drown a resistance woman underwater, in his panic he lets her go and she gets away, a rare mistake he'd rather not repeat again.

He coughs, having swum from the deep end, dragging himself up on the shore. The park was fortunately empty, which was why he chose this spot for his interrogation/elimination.

He sat there, shivering, feeling cold despite his abilities shielding him from the harsher effects of underwater life.

"R...redbeard..." he mumbled, staring at the rippling pond, unsure of what the word even meant, just that it was terrifying. He held his head, a child's song echoing through it.

I that am lost...oh, who will find me?

FLASH--Being trapped in a white room, too much light, music blaring in his ears, a voice telling him that everything was going to be all right, all he had to do was just let them in--

--the sound of a plane landing--

--Moriarty's voice, echoing in his head--

"It doesn’t quite make sense; this doesn’t quite make sense. Of course it doesn’t make sense. It's not real--"

FLASH--

Sherlock gasped, still shivering. No. Pain. Bad things happened when he tried to remember. He knew some things, he knew his old life (vaguely), he knew Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft and Molly Hooper, and John--

NO. He immediately put a stop to that, wincing as that familiar pain burst in his head. Something crumbled in his mind. His Mind Palace had become a dark, chained-up place, doors hidden by wooden boards tacked up over them, or by cave-ins, some doors had completely disappeared. Staircases that went nowhere, hallways that became mobius strips. It had become a labyrinth, one that he was not in charge of. Perhaps he was a prisoner of.

He couldn't think about John. John, who was one of them. The Enemy. Stupidly, he'd fallen for their propaganda. They were on opposite sides, and it was his fault for not seeing the truth. And Sherlock might very well be made to bring him in, or worse.

How dare he make him choose such a horrible thing? He hated John for that.

/makes my own prompt FIGHT ME

[acclimatized]

It had taken the Soviets enslaving Sherlock Holmes to stir John Watson into action. In the months leading up to that decisive Autumn day, he had been neutral in the fight against the new government. Normality was an easy disguise for a man like him to don. He deleted his blog and fled Heropa, leaving all his personal belongings behind. No one would look twice at a meek, middle-aged man in an oversized anorak and working dutifully in a small clinic based in Maurtia Falls. He kept his nose to the grind stone, but he would quietly usher in injured resistance members if they came to him for medical aid. Guilt ate away at him and, sometimes, he would experience flashes of an unfamiliar ceiling and the sensation of something not being quite right.

Since no one else seemed to experience these flashes, he dismissed it as stress. The uncertainty remained though.

But then a rumour began circulating that shifted his priorities forever. A horror story about a Soldat with stunning deductive prowess, who uprooted an entire resistance settlement about a ten minutes' drive away from Heropa and killed everyone discovered hiding there. From then on out, it had always been winter for John Watson. He joined the resistance, hoping to find Sherlock and rescue him. His blog came back online, chronicling their fight against the regime, he participated in raids, helped the injured and chased after the coattails of a legendary Soldat.

He hadn't thought he would be ported out before he could accomplish this. When he came back, something changed in John. What started as a mission to rescue Sherlock Holmes from the Soviet's control was replaced with something dark and twisted instead. Anger consumed his every waking minute. Mary sacrificed her life to save his. Rosie had lost her mother. And how was he spending this precious currency? By hunting down and killing people. This had to stop. He opened his blog and posted a simple message.

The Pool. Midnight.

[RESISTANCE] Mikaela Hyakuya | Owari no Seraph (tw death, gore blood etc?)

[allforyuu]

Day 1:
It's not fair that they brainwash children and teenagers and use them for their own bidding. Mika would stay out of the fighting if it wasn't because of that. It bothers him on a fundamental level. So he rarely smiles and gets coloured contacts to hide himself and that seems to be enough to make him blend in.

So when he found the system in the sewers that wasn't used, it seemed the most obvious place to create his own little hideout, where he recovered between fights. It was cool and the sunlight was nonexistent: all perfect for a person like him.

It's even more perfect to hide people in. Like a brainwashed kid or two.

Day 2:

Their little hideout is slowly but surely becoming less safe as the days go by. Mika tries to never take the same route back, but it's hard. It feels like he's constantly being watched.

This time he feels especially exposed, but there aren't any sneaky detours left to take. He stumbles, turning to meet whoever was on his tail. It's better to confront them than to lead them straight back to the lair.

Day 3: [locked to Yuichiro]

[allforyuu]

Day 3: [locked to Yuichiro]
Capturing people was the hard part. Once they were safely down in the maze-like system underground, it was much easier to keep track of them. Mika prefered it that way: less chance of being hurt and it made it easier to see how far they had gotten in beating their brainwashing.

This time it was different. Mika was convinced the new one must have some kind of telepathic power, because it made no sense that his head and heart was suddenly full of him. It had to be a brainwashing technique for sure.

"How dare you."

Crane | NEUTRAL

[restingstitchface]

The waking hours passed with Crane spending the entire time denoting patterns and behavior on his flashcards and notebook columns. By the first night, he was ready to buckle down and analyze, ready to tackle anything anybody might throw his way. Kill him, would they? Ha! He didn't even care. He was going to show up night after night, take everything he wanted, and make them all feel sorry when they woke up in the morning.

It did not occur to him that he was trying to be helpful.

Day 1, 2 & 3: OTA

[Well, maybe he could dip his toe in the water a bit first. He takes the first step, or the second or third, and slips inside the dream, and takes a seat beside the person he's come to visit. He weaves a form they might be intimately familiar with, wears the skin of a figure they've learned to respect, or be frightened of, though he believes fear and respect are the same. He appears as himself to some, forty-six years old.

Some people he doesn't seem to visit at all. His curiosity takes a backseat to his patience and he observes the dream grow dark. My, it's getting hotter in here. Isn't it getting hotter in here? Anxiety, rapid heartbeats, raw nerves, a case of shivers when shadows twitch and move on their own.

Hello, brave new world.]

Day 3: Closed to Persephone

[8pm. The hour before a concert. The first day might see Persephone rubbing at her throat. She might slip something into a glass of alcohol on the second and neck it down. Though it takes some time for the nightmares to creep in, by the third day she's perhaps lost her voice entirely. When or if this happens, Crane will pay it a large amount of attention. It will surely be a sight to see.]

[OOC: Will match format. Crane's a neutral observer with power to become literal nightmare fuel. If you have any questions hit me up with a PM or a starter. Given the nature of his character and this power, please consider your character's dream - and do plot with me via Plurk or PM if it involves anything serious. He is generally trying to wake people up by frightening them awake. For science.]

[pummelgranite]

[ It's been less than 48 hours since her voice left her entirely. Her assigned Soviet doctors were less than useless. Said she showed no signs of either infection or damage; the idiots in the Soldat project cared so much more what her strength can do than her song. As her concerts and public appearances did nothing at all for the unity and prosperity of the world!


There's groupies outside her building. Brilliant. They can make all kinds of noise. Asking questions, declaring love, trying to rat out dissidents, hoping that they can bring her celebrity violence to their neighborhoods. She'd like to scream at them. Fuck, she'd settle for some withering comments.

She settles for choosing one round-faced, earnest-looking girl. Without a word, Persephone takes one of the girls hands delicately in both of hers. She looks into the girl's eyes, smiles, then wrenches the girl's index finger to snapping. The howl of pain and shock she lets out does take the edge off, if only a tiny bit.

With that, she enters the building and makes her way to the elevator bank. ]

SOLDAT JACOB TAYLOR | OTA

[darkpants_warmfeeling]

A: Soviet-Occupied Porter bases (any city)

The brainwashing hasn't changed Jacob, not really. He's still friendly and dependable toward his allies. He still wants to help and protect others. He still regrets his mistakes and seeks atonement. He still commits one hundred-percent to a cause worthy of his loyalty.

But now, his allies are Soviet soldiers, American collaborators, and other 'converted' imPorts. Now, he helps the occupation authority protect others from the lawless chaos of the so-called 'resistance.' Now, his regrets revolve around how hard he fought against the Soviet invasion, about the brave comrades he hurt before he was liberated and helped to realize he was on the wrong side. Now, he is one-hundred percent committed to the cause of bringing peace to the United States and serving the greater good by confiscating dangerous imPorts.

There is only one thing about Jacob that the brainwashing really has changed: he does not question anymore. The part of him that doubted the Systems Alliance, that turned aside from Cerberus, that resisted Registration and distrusted RISE as an imPort... that part is gone. He is free from doubt, fear, insubordination, and uncertainty. He is at peace, fully ready to die and kill in service to the Soviet Union. He has never felt better.

Much of the time, Jacob can be found stationed at one of the Porter bases that the Soviets now operate. He may be training with his comrades, exercising, participating in planning or briefing for upcoming operations, standing guard over key areas, or interrogating Resistance prisoners.


B: Daytime street patrols (any city)

The days are relatively quiet. The Resistance rarely attacks in broad daylight, like the cowardly subversive rats they are. Yet there is no room for laxity in these troubled times, and Jacob is often deployed into the Porter cities on standard patrol duty: manning a checkpoint, walking through neighbourhoods with his hand never far from his gun, sweeping an area for runaway imPorts, or putting up WANTED flyers advertising the identities of suspected Resistance fugitives.

Wherever he goes, he is polite and professional toward the occupied American citizenry or neutral imPorts he encounters. It's the Resistance that is the enemy: the Soviets are here to help, after all, and so is Jacob.


C: Night combat raids (any city)

The battle to maintain order and peace in the Porter cities is largely waged by night, and Jacob is consistently on the front lines. He's proven himself to his comrades enough times to be entrusted with command over a squad of Russian soldiers, and he leads them from the front in any battle they face, drawing fire to himself with his biotic energy barrier. He fights with guns and fists as much as with his biotic powers, throwing himself into the fray.

Whether they're responding to a Resistance ambush or kicking in the door to an enemy safehouse, Jacob and his comrades work with pride and efficiency, strong in their convictions and their cause. Maybe you're one of the Resistance imPorts he's fighting tonight, or maybe you're a fellow Soldat joining the righteous fight. Either way, you'll see that Jacob is professional and dedicated. He never kills the Resistance needlessly... But he never lets the enemy escape, either.

[rathercommon]

[ Kitty doesn't ever go out wearing her own face any longer. It's what's kept her safe in this occupied land - the ability to transform, reshape, redefine herself. She can be anyone at any time.

And so today she's an old woman, hunchbacked and hobbling, with frail hands that tremble when she moves. She's confident in her disguise - of course she is, she's damned good - confident enough to be bold and daring. She knows that Jacob is not with them, that he's brainwashed, but even so, when she sees him out on the street she approaches him.

Her voice is quavery and strained. She asks him as he puts up a wanted flyer - ]

What it that they've all done? All of them.

soldat ♽ kouta kazuraba

[orangeyaglad]

one.

[He doesn't remember anything before this. Nothing solid, anyway. He remembers different people being around, but he seems to recall some of them dying, and that just fuels his fury. Kouta is haunted by that more than his lack of any other memory. He can tell he is changed, somehow. Maybe he used to talk to people. Not worth it now. Getting close to someone now is a risk he won't take unless he can be sure of their loyalty.

He knows his duty is to put a stop to any Resistance. They're clearly to blame for this. And he doesn't need to get his memories back to stop them from doing it to anyone else. He knows how to fight, and he knows how to kill.

The pulse pounds in his head. He'd fight anyone who deserved it, for the smallest infraction. The crowds know it too, skirting wide around him and keeping their heads low.

His unfading anger has led him to the brightest lit corner in the middle of the city streets. He stands stock still and glares as the people go by, just waiting for one inch of Resistance to show itself before he goes flying after them with every ounce of speed and agility he has at his disposal. He says nothing and simply waits, ever on edge. Vigilance is not the only threat he holds.

And now he's out in the open.]


two.

[8:45. Curfew is nigh. Time to start patrolling. Kouta isn't the best guy to get an assignment with, being so standoffish and angry, but he gets the work done and knows where to look to catch people sneaking. Just hope you're faster than he is, to keep him from throwing anyone he finds to the ground.]

Two

[dumbfound]

[ Junseo hates night patrol. It's boring, and he's tired, and he'd much rather be sleeping then marking around with a fellow soldat who doesn't even like to talk, and Junseo isn't good at thinking up conversation starters either. His subordinates get to sleep right now. How come he doesn't?

He picks at a loose thread on his uniform, clearly not looking up and watching for civilians who are out when they're not supposed to be. This is probably why he got assigned to do this with Kouta, because at least that way their superiors could know that someone was actually doing what they are supposed to be. ]

There's never anyone out here.

[ It's both a complaint and an observation. It's a lot of time spent for a lot of nothing. ]

daenerys targaryen. the resistance.

[jalan]

RESISTANCE; THE DISPENSARY SAFEHOUSE

[ It's been some time, since Daenerys started officially living off the map. It was some time after Drogon died. Some time after they took Jorah Mormont from her.

There's a simplicity to it that during the longer hours seems peaceful. The main safehouse she presides over is located in the woodlands of Virginia, with dirt roads kept patrolled with friendly eyes, the occasionally fairie illusion turning people away. The Dispensary, given capital status after some amount of repetition, runs cold in the winter with its big, high-ceiling rooms, conserving the generator for more worthy pursuits, especially as the weather begins to warm. It is a derelict old building, dark brick and concrete floors, with a property that extends several acres fenced off with electrified chainlink fence. A garage is established as a satellite building, and a pier reaching for James River is partially hidden with low hanging trees and robust shrubbery and long river grass.

It might not look like home until you find the kitchen, with its mismatched crockery and table cloth, or the dining area near the wood burning fireplace, or the individual bedrooms set up, less personalised but quite comfortable. There's a sickbay for those in need of long term recovery. There's a war room, too, where Daenerys and those others who are tactically minded may share intelligence, documents, and strategy over candle light.

The upper level is more armoury and storage than anything else, with windows from which look outs can keep watch. Daenerys may take on this duty herself, or simply come upstairs with a heated metal pot of tea, or a sandwich, or a serving of lamb stew.

She can be found gardening, cooking while listening to the radio, practicing her aim with her pistol at their improvised shooting range. She might be speaking quietly to an injured party, responding to a late night emergency by lighting candles and giving quiet instructions, receiving supplies during broad day light with a smile. Not everyone who lives there with her are imPorts, either, but natives as angry as you are at the state of things. ]

RESISTANCE; ACTIVITIES

[ But far be it for anyone to say that she spends her time in hiding. While she understands her own value to be someone who is not a physical combatant, she knows something to be true: she is not a queen, with a throne to guard. And she has her uses too.

Her ability to sway emotions makes her an asset when it comes to attending supply drops, speaking to allies, or to frightened newcomer imPorts. She waits on the sidelines as people are broken out of laboratories and tends to wounds and holds hands. She travels to find new safehouses, or places that are simply safe. Meeting locations may include a church, a diner after hours, the back alley of a Chinese restaurant.

There are people of interest to her as well, people indoctrinated in the Russian military. She follows at a distance, not above seizing some reckless opportunity to strike. ]

SUPPLY DROP + AMBUSH; JAIME, HERIAN

[ Sitting low and wide in the Rappahannock River, the old fishing boat quietly motors its way along the coast. Woodlands press in on either side of the river, reaching with low branches towards where mosquitoes flourish on the surface of the quiet water. They nose their way towards where a lantern has been lit to guide them.

It's not an unusual drop off point, but that doesn't mean people aren't on their guard. A trusted ally, however, has promised guns rather than only the standard necessities, and so Daenerys is here as well. She is watching the murky water glide by, bundled into a rain proof coat, her hair in a utilitarian braid, snaked down her collar. Hidden beneath her coat is her own sidearm, one she's only had to practice with rather than use to defend herself.

She has people for that sort of thing. Not as many as she'd like, of course.

When the boat pulls up at its pier, she lets Herian disembark first before following on. They are the only imPorts there, but the one manning the boat and the two armed others are reliable allies. The former stays on board. Should anything go terribly south, they've at least two kinds of back up strategy. The pier creaks under Dany's boots as she steps onto dry land -- or moist land, algae and rot making the wood slick. She ways away a moth, and piers into the dimness of the wooded shoreline. Behind her, someone shines a flashlight. ]

[ ooc ; feel free to hit me up with any of the above suggestions, or improvise! i am also open for soldat rp. let me know if you want to plan anything out more! i will also be pretty slow for the next few more days due to school but will pick up soon. ]

Safehouse

[governorkang]

[Kang, unfortunately stuck as a baseline human now, operates mainly in Heropa, but every now and then he helps out with something in the other cities. It's rare for him to actually visit up there; he doesn't find many chances that give him a decent alibi. It's time for a strategy session, though. Those are difficult to do with messengers.

First, though, he needs something to drink after that trek through the woods. A bottle of water from the kitchen will work perfectly.]

SOLDAT Frank Castle | OTA

[380s]

Another day, another sniper's nest. Frank had several of them set up across Maurtia Falls and the town outskirts. Some were just out of sight of suspected Resistance meeting places, some outside of bugged politicians' offices. All of them saw more of a need for recon than action. It galled him, but Frank was bound to his orders.

He thought he was done with orders when he arrived in this world with his family, before the other imPorts shattered his peace, before their skirmishes alongside the Resistance killed his wife and children while leaving him for dead.

Or so the Soviets impressed upon him when he woke up in their new facility, anyway. When they offered him the means for revenge in exchange for loyalty. For Frank, it was an offer he couldn't refuse, whether he realized it or not.

Now, the skull emblazoned onto his advanced body armor burns crimson, and there's no need to hide his hardware under coats or in seedy warehouse caches. And yet, he still sits atop a warehouse now, hidden by a cloaking device as he waits for the Resistance members to meet at the docks. He doesn't think he'll stick to standby for much longer. Not if the groups keep growing.

(feel free to change the scenario if you'd like!)

good morning

[infomodder]

Will likes Frank. He's all eat up with his revenge whatever but still pretty good with dogs. If he could spend every Soldat meeting as a dog between Frank's legs getting ear scratches he would. Ain't Will's fault that Frank knows how to make a back leg kick like nobody's business.

He's a bit late to their meeting spot this time. But he's brought coffee! Does Frank even need coffee? Does he just run off of vengeance juice? Hell if Will knows, but he likes Frank, and free coffee helps people find others endearing. Sometimes he wants to follow Frank home and sleep at his feet, get a bath, and bring him his shoes. He never shares these flashes of doggie desire because even he knows that's fucked up, but when he finally comes around, not in any particular outfit other than dark, sleek, and fitting, it's with something of a smile and two coffees.

"Traffic was a bitch," explanation, the drink apology, made exactly how he's noticed Frank taking it in the past. Observance pays off. "What've we got?"

BLACK BEETLE / JAIME REYES | SOLDAT

[khajidont]

BLACK BEETLE: SOVIET BASE

[ As far as the public knows, the acquisition of the Blue Beetle - now the Black Beetle, because everyone knows that an alignment switch means a change of image as well - had been a huge success of the new Soviet regime. It's no secret that the Blue Beetle is more powerful than he looks, and there's still some measure of elusiveness with which he acts; he's the sort of force that disappears for a month at a time before reappearing precisely where he shouldn't be, tracking down those that dare resist and taking care of them swiftly and, it must be said, generally non-lethally. That's not as much of a benefit as one would consider it. A life imprisoned is not a great deal better than death, but no matter how people may try to goad him into killing them, he acts with cold efficiency, bringing them to heel and going back to... wherever it is that the Soviets keep him. Nobody really knows. All they know is that when they see him, it never seems to work out well for the other party.

In truth, the Soviets have stopped keeping Jaime locked away once he was thoroughly placed underneath their influence, but he makes no efforts to dissuade the belief even among his allies. Other Soldats may see the Black Beetle - hulking at over seven feet tall, armour ridged and spiked, hands drooping to the ground with the weight of their claws, yellow eyes glowing ominously behind his blackened exterior - simply standing there, waiting to head out.

If you're here to infiltrate, expect to be put down swiftly.

If among only his fellow soldats, however, he'll speak, voice made lower through digitization alone, and he's quick, to the point. ] I've tracked them down. Are you ready?

BLACK BEETLE: PUTTING DOWN THE RESISTANCE

[ Things have to be going very poorly for the Soviets to deploy the Black Beetle, but the Resistance grows ever stronger, and the Black Beetle finds himself sent out more and more. In the midst of a skirmish, those below may notice a hulking figure flying overhead before stopping and simply dropping like a stone. As he lands, concrete and debris go flying with the sheer force of his impact, and he straightens up, one clawed hand curling as he looks around at those around him with what almost seems like an air of distinct disappointment. ] You shouldn't be doing this, [ his voice grates out, speaking as though scolding a classroom of children. ] You're only going to get yourself hurt. Stand down, and come with me. If you do, they will be kind.

[ That seems... wrong, somehow, but -- no. This is the way it's always been, isn't it? ]

JAIME REYES: SLICE OF LIFE

[ Jaime had spent time resisting, but had vanished for months on end before returning, an oddness to his smile, and an emptiness to his eyes, like something's missing. And something is missing - Khaji's as much a part of him as anything else, and he didn't go through this unscathed either. Without him, without resistance, Jaime seems to have become quiet and complacent. You may find him at a coffeeshop, still in his mechanic's overalls, hair cut short and facial hair grown long (because of course he can grow his beard now), grabbing a coffee and a newspaper.

He reaches in an aborted attempt to tuck once-long hair behind his ear, then flaps the paper out in front of him. ] Curfew's been extended again. That's nice, isn't it? They're really listening to us. [ He takes a sip of his black coffee, sighing in a pleasant sort of way. ] But that means longer work hours too. We'll be wishing for the old curfew in no time!

[ want something else? want to find out jaime's secret id through the dream, or play with his endgame in this dream (switching allegiances again and becoming a lucid dreamer after being killed)? let me know on the plotting post or on PLURK, and I'd be delighted to plot with you; there's so much here that we can play with! ]

put downs

[infomodder]

[Ughhhhh the Black Beetle. For a bug, he's sure more of a buzzkill than an actual buzz. Except not, with his whole anti-kill thing. This is falling apart.

He might be able to convince a few of them. And Will knows damn well that the Beetle can take care of himself. But he just turned into a monstrous deerhound and he is going to get bloody paws before this day is over so help him. Someone, just out of the Beetle's sight, draws a blade. Will uses this as reason enough to hurl his giant, dark, furry body, snarling, jaws clenching around forearm first as he snaps, lashes, aims for the neck.

Kindness is for everyone else but this guy, apparently. Fuck this guy. He is going to literally eat this guy's face in front of God and man.]

DOCTOR THADDEUS 'RUSTY' VENTURE | RESISTANCE

[musclemothers]

NOTE: Rusty's power is to create up to 10 clones of an imPort, without their powers, but underneath his control (and they appear all pink, gooey and naked). If you're playing a Soldat, let me know whether or not it's okay to use this power in the title!

SAFEHOUSE

[ When the Russians arrived, most would rightfully suspect Rusty of simply going along with them out of sheer self-preservation, but that's not what wound up happening. Brainwashing? Like that? With that technology? Hah! It insulted his intelligence, and it insulted his status of a proud American, thank you very much. Americans are the only ones allowed to invade other countries and place their own rules in their stead, thank you very much, and seemingly out of spite alone, Rusty managed to talk and bully himself into the Resistance solely out of the fact that he'll be useful.

And, strangely enough, he is useful. Useful isn't the same thing as moral, however, and his techniques may be frowned upon by some of the less... ruthless among the Resistance, but so long as their leader lets Rusty in, he'll continue strutting around as though he owns the place.

At the moment, Rusty's busy perching on top of something that looks like a tank with several mismatched legs buffeting it forward, a rattling metal ball in his hands. ] Hah! I'd like to see those Soviets do half of what I can do with twice the budget. They won't know what hit them.

[ He rolls the metal ball down the back of the tank, and as it comes nearer, VENTURE INDUSTRIES is emblazoned across the ball. On the contrary, they'll know exactly what hit them. ]

FIELDWORK

[ Rusty doesn't tend to spend much time on the field. Honestly, he spends most of his time ducking from safehouse to safehouse, relying on the goodwill of his fellow fighters to keep him happily fed while he evades all dangers, and he's just as skinny, weak and pale as before, having long been content with creating monstrosities in the name of nebulous goodness while having to do very little else.

But even he has to leave the safehouse at some point. He means only to be out for just long enough to grab supplies and get back to what he now counts as his home, but between one thing and another, he finds himself out past curfew, backing away uneasily from a few Soviet soldiers. ]

Do you know who I am?! I've been a very useful servant to your masters - no getting caught past curfew all year long! And this is the way you treat me?! Why, I have half a mind to let your boss know how ridiculous you're being, [ he says, with the same air that soccer moms would ask to speak to the manager.

If you're a Soldat, you may see him reaching into his jacket pocket for a syringe he keeps on him - it's high time to interfere before it's too late. If you're a fellow Resistance member - Doc's going to get himself killed, and the Resistance probably needs him, despite his odious personality. ]

[ Or you can wildcard it! Feel free to contact me on the plottting post or on plurk to work something out at WISDOMBITCH. ]

fieldwork.

[alcheregis]

I do know who you are indeed!

[ Haen is waaay to perky to be a Soldat, and yet a Soldat she is. It seemed the Soviets could brainwash her but not remove the majority of her personality. ]

You're the one getting yourself all riled up, dear, there's really no need for it.

Magnus Burnsides | RESISTANCE

[burlyboy]

RUSTIC HOSPITALITY

[ Magnus is no stranger to despots, although this is a despot of a different sort. Still, in Magnus' admittedly simplistic worldview, a bully is a bully, and there's no way in hell that he's not putting his best foot forward when people are getting hurt, their freedoms infringed upon, their right to live stolen from them. He fixed the situation once, and he'll do it again - only this time, he'll make sure that the ones in charge of this whole mess aren't left alive to do it again.

But taking part in a resistance has a lot less to do with fighting than some may think. It's about making connections, giving people hope, giving others a cause to fight for, and Magnus, with his interminable earnest generosity and open, trustworthy face, is just the man to try to recruit others into the cause.

You, neutral traveler, you, who may have already been brainwashed, may nevertheless be approached by one Magnus Burnsides. There are rumours that he's taken part in the resistance, but they often seem baseless; he's always busy helping his neighbour, and that doesn't seem to leave much time for anything else. ] Hail, and well met! [ He booms. ] It's a nice day out today, isn't it? It'll be an even nicer evening, if we could stay out and look at the stars.

[ He smiles, expression seeming to say: wouldn't it be nice to stay out late again? A simple sort of resistance, but a good litmus test nonetheless. ]

SAFEHOUSE

[ Of course, to those in the know, it can't be any more obvious that Magnus is a part of the Resistance. He's thrown himself into it whole-heartedly, seeming to think of little else. As of now, he's standing before a table, a map spread out before him and Steven the goldfish - still in his cute little bowl - on the table's corner, staring glassy-eyed at the passer-bys. He scratches at one of his sideburns before grabbing a stick of charcoal and drawing a line through one of the winding streets. There's a furrow to his brow, and he looks uncharacteristically concerned as he says, ] More of us got captured the other day. We can't keep on losing people like this. We need to get them out.

[ Pros of Magnus on your side during a revolution: he'll attract others to your cause like flies to honey.

Cons of Magnus on your side during a revolution: he will take care of those people, whether it's wise or not. ]

LOOK HE JUST HITS SHIT WITH HIS AXE, OKAY

[ Eventually, however, the Resistance has to be lured out of hiding, and Magnus is right there with the rest of them, axe in hand. He has no fancy powers, just some good old fashioned armour and some good old fashioned strength on his side, along with the determination to be a human shield for any other member of the resistance who needs it. Axe in hand, he rushes in.

And if a soldat gets in his way - well. Magnus has never shied away from killing his enemies before. ]

[ And, for the last time -- wildcard options are available! If you'd like to toss a wildcard at me, feel free, otherwise please contact me on the plotting post or hit me up on plurk @ WISDOMBITCH xoxoxo ]

safehouse

[mathemagier]

What do you think we're trying to do?

[Hermann's snappy because it's true, and he's frustrated. He glares into his laptop, jaw tight as his fingers fly across the keyboard]

If I can just sort out where they were taken..

MITCHELL HUNDRED | Resistance

[viced]

[ 1. Safehouse ]

It's not a well known safehouse, for sure, but occasionally, whispers will get to certain members of the resistance that there's an...inventor? Crazed madman? Someone who will get you a gun, or get your own gun to do wonders. They say that the Numbered Man was able to hide in Heropa, surprisingly close to the Porter building. It's difficult to get there, so many don't, security gets high, the closer you get there, and the house he's housed in looks so nondescript -- like an old abandoned warehouse that nobody got around to demolishing. Or maybe the orders to do so kept disappearing and buried in bureaucratic messes so deep it was eventually forgotten. It's so easy to hide a faulty gear in the machine, after all.

Entering is another thing altogether. There's no speakers, but the door is locked, and no amount of hacking or trying to find the mechanics will get the damned thing open. There's a camera, and a speaker hidden in the rafters, but it's there. He has to vet every single person that comes in, after all. He's been burned by the Soldat before. Occasionally, the voice that comes over the line is slurred, and distant, telling any visitor that they'll have to wait an hour, before they can be let in. Sometimes, they get in immediately. Either way, if you get in, you're greeted by a staircase and an array of weapons, all primed and ready. There's even a few tank heads with the guns attached. There are no people, just machines.

And if they make it down the stairs, they're greeted by a weary, aged face. Long hair, a beard that's more scraggly than it has any right being. An old, ribbed cap keeps it all together, and his hair helps obscure the barest hints of scars on his face -- all down the side -- like an intricate pattern that he's actively hiding... but nothing can hide that glow. That green glow seems like it never stops these days. There's the ashes of a blunt in an ashtray, buried in the piles of cigarette butts and stained, sludgey coffee mugs. Parts litter every surface, wires, batteries, jars of acid, radios, each item clearly has a purpose, and half are pulled apart and strewn about. In one hand is a neon green gun, and in the other, a cigarette. Strapped to his thigh is another, unused, but plugged in.

Maybe someday. "Alright, you made it, so what the fuck do you want?" his voice is more grizzled than the man who'd been a politician once, edging with synesthesia, the color green blossoms, but it's not quite there. Not yet, but it's close. He scowled and lowers his gun, slightly. "Come on, I don't have all fucking day."

Clearly, he does.

[ 2. The Outside. ]

Heropa at night is a hell of a thing. Close to curfew, it can be dangerous to be out, but after's a whole other story. But scavenging at the dumps and military dumpsites is the only way to get the parts needed. He's a scavenger these days, but between the voices of the machines around him, the voices in his head, and whoever might be around, it's easy to lose oneself in the work. He picks through, like he's diving for something specific each time. Machines that are off still speak -- their soul still present in a way that normal people wouldn't be able to hear, but he can. He picks things out with ease -- toasters, chips, arrays and other junk that was discarded because of faulty design, but he can use it, even if they didn't think there was much of one.

But getting caught up in that means he misses the Soldat approaching, with their guns at the ready. After all, he's near a base, looking like some homeless scavenger. They approach with their guns at the ready, but he just looks at them, bored. "Oh, fuck off," he said, and it's loud enough to draw any passers by who might notice.

[3. I want to Escape. ]

"Come on," he said, his voice low but panicked. It's night, late. Around 3 am. Right before people start to stir and wake, but when the patrols will be the lightest and with the most exhausted of the Soldat troops. The gun normally affixed to his hip is out, now, plugged into a power pack kept on his side -- as if it were a shoulder gun holster, but it's hidden from view for a reason. The power draw is immense, when it boots up, a high whine before a single bright light on the battery pack showed through the dingy white of his shirt.

This time, his hair's pulled back, still wile and messy, but at least enough that there's a bit more of the face revealed. Sharp, features -- too little food -- a big, round nose, and scars that look worse than they ever would in the import world. They're creeping around the other side, across his neck, and up the other side. Multiple coats and long hair hide it normally, but there's no hiding the way this man looks, like he's got a disease, or something technological is taking over slowly.

He raised his gun to the air, before a soft 'zzt' echoed, and a slice in the air started. At first, there's a sound -- like screaming, jarring and mechanical, and the light in front of him turns sharp and red -- like a world on fire.

And then the portal collapsed, a thud, like a door slamming shut. Another attempt with the gun, and this time nothing. "Fuck!"

[ Wildcard! ]

[ Mitch mostly sticks to himself in the safehouse, but he can be found occasionally out and about, getting supplies, food, etc. Feel free to mistake him for someone down on their luck. ]

1!

[allforyuu]

[All things considered, rumours are everything he has at this point. It tells him which buildings are raided, which ones are safe to live in for the night... And Mika doesn't mind waiting an hour, or two -or three- if it meant getting a weapon he can trust.]

[As for the hideout, Mika quietly takes it all in: the machines, the faintly green light everywhere, reminding him of old tales of alchemists and crazed inventors. It doesn't make him feel safe, but then again, that's not why he's here in the first place.]

[He follows the signs of life until he comes across the man, but he stops at a respectful distance. In these days, it's hard to trust people. He doesn't want to ruin his one opportunity. He places the bag he's carrying gently on the ground, and it clinks lightly.]

I was told you could help me, for a price.

The Shade | UNAFFILIATED

[foreshadower]

[ 1. Learning to live again. ]

Once, he was a shadowy, shadowy man. He moved like ink in water, smooth and ebbing, like a creature unto himself. Now his motions are stilted and awkward. Walking is hard, slow, he moves like he always had, but now he has no blessing of shadows to move faster. He moves with the weariness that his age offers, which means while he's still well dressed, it's more in time with the local area. No need to stand out, after all. Not after losing his powers.

Honestly, it's a miracle he's still alive, without them. He's slightly pallid, like a man who doesn't know how to live with the old habits, and he's just plain weary. He does things like go to the bank to pay bills, he shops at the local Aldi for groceries -- no ingredients from France these days -- and lives in a shabby apartment, instead of a fancy home. He managed to find work as a curator for an art gallery -- and he feels like he's this close to returning to thieving, for a taste of the good life.

But mostly? Mostly he scoffs at the cheap wines in the supermarket, critiques the art in his own gallery, and prowls like an elderly man. He even looks it, these days. His hair white, frown on his face. It's all rather frustrating -- and it's out on the street today, when a car happened by, splashing water all over him. He doesn't curse, but the look on his face, stormy and sick of it, says very clearly, that he's thinking it.

[ 2. Would you like some art? ]

The art business is great for smuggling. Particularly when you can arrange things like thieves and hits to take out the items, and get them to the...appropriate hands. Things like weapons, money, medical Supplies... Well, if he just happens to be present when a local Resistance group swings through to take out one of his statues that just happened to be hollow -- well, what was Richard Swift, normal human -- going to do about it?

It wasn't like they could say he arranged it, considering all he did was arrange the item to come to his store, right?

[ 3. Café. ]

Just because he was powerless, didn't mean he wasn't entirely pretentious. He even still sat out, in the sun, enjoying a cup of Italian coffee, and lamenting the days when this was all he had to do. Well, library aside, but Shade...wasn't exactly the hardest worker on the planet. Hadn't been. Losing one's powers certainly encouraged a certain...change in attitude.

But the sigh while he sipped his coffee said enough.

"Ugh. Will they ever sort the coffee imports out?" he asked of the waitress, sitting in the outdoor cafe, peering over his sunglasses over the street. Was he speaking code, or was he actually bemoaning the state of coffee?

3

[heckblazer]

Looking like a pitiable, unassuming wash-up was always easier with like-minded company, which was probably why John enjoyed Shade's company more now that they were both sapped of their talents.

He makes himself comfortable in the seat across the table, a glass of brandy in hand despite the bright afternoon sun still glowing above them.

Technically, John is resistance, but makes it a point not to be card-carrying. He occasionally destroys things and lets poor saps sleep and regroup in the warded cottage he shares with Zatanna, but otherwise he preoccupies himself by watching and feeling bitter as the world crumbled before him. One Monsieur Swift did at least make adequate company for such an activity.

"Might be i-Talian, actually. Digital reconstruction of the real coffee beans. Clever enough for gettin' 'round embargoes, if you're unconcerned with authenticity." - with John, it could be either absolute bullshit or a genuine observation.

Will Graham | Soldat

[infomodder]

ota; feel free to chime in whenever or wildcard it i ain't picky

Will Graham is a bit of a freak. Then again, he always has been. And, then again again, a large chunk of the population out and about are also freakish in one way or another. Whether they have an odd appearance, screwed up powers, or come from bizarre worlds where people act more like praying mantises and worship clods of dirt, there's a bit of a freak wherever you look.

He was an easy sway. The loss of April, now a distant memory he isn't sure ever happened, left him more of a mental wreck than usual. Picking up those shattered pieces and creating a jagged vase instead of a teacup wasn't so difficult.

Several nights or mornings of the week, Will Graham can be found scarfing down whatever special happens to be running at the Waffle Mansion, or the International Shack of Pancakes. His hair is large and messy but trimmed, his face is shaven, he wears dark, solid colors in faux leather, cottons, and the like, and tends to make actual, agreeable small talk with the wait staff. From time to time, he has a companion, and arguably they're never up to any good. He doesn't hide when he pulls out a flask of strong drink adds it to his coffee, because why would he? The world is a mess and he's just here to enjoy runny eggs or too-doughy waffles before the inevitable diarrhea hits.

He partially puts himself in the open so often just to be there. To be visible. A challenge to anyone resisting who might want to try out their bold stuff. The other part of him just really likes some runny eggs or too-doughy waffles.

His hands wear no wedding band. The scars he usually sports have additions, hidden under long sleeves. Generally, he's covered, even when fishing. When he does his rounds during the day, he's a bit friendlier. He says hello. He has conversation. His social skills have increased, though he is still prone to bringing up the less pleasant news than, say, cats who were doing cute things in a huge cardboard box.

In the late evenings and early mornings, he goes sniffing. He wears the body of every breed of dog there is, changing as needs are called for. Something small and helpless for those who seemed inclined to provide aid; something intimidating but with kind eyes for those who seem inclined to want protection. Sometimes he just wants to sit around and hear information. Sometimes he has a darker intent. Sometimes he just wants a cuddle. Sometimes he sits in Soldat meetings wearing a dog skin just because it's so much easier to not have to talk when he doesn't to. And he can get pets that way.

It's hard out here for a pup.


john watson;

He could prove a distraction, Will is told, stuffing a gun behind his back. Technically speaking, he already has. You know how bad distractions can be for your comrades.

He grabs his jacket, tossing it on and pulling out a few curls from the collar.

You must be careful. You can tell no one of this mission.

"Who am I gonna tell?"

That pretty little thing at the Waffle Mansion who always pays you extra attention. We do watch you. If you keep eating so many breadstuffs, you won't be able to wear those pants much longer.

A Look. Fifteen more minutes to be briefed, a read over a file that was promptly burned after, and some delicious breadstuffs with coffee and a side of waitress waggling eyebrows, and then Will Graham was more or less gone. From the usual, anyway; he was taking a side route to hunt down this Doctor John Watson. Doctor John Distraction Watson.

It takes time, of course, time and determination. Time and luck. Time and the guise of a friendly, lost, beautiful golden retriever sniffing around to make sure he's tracked down the right man, to the right place.

But when he comes knocking, he doesn't do so as a friendly little guy. He does so as himself. Distraction means more interesting than usual — pair that with Doctor and Will's interest has reached critical mass. However he's knocked, be it literally or suddenly face-to-face, Will Graham is there, dressed all in black, like some youthful, curious servant of Death come calling with time to spare. He makes eye contact, stance confident and unwavering. He does not look like a threat...except for those who have an idea of who he is, which he's certain John does. The hunt had given Will some very strange dreams of what never could have been...probably all those undercooked eggs.

"Doctor."

[acclimatized]

It was a mistake coming back to Heropa.

John still had friends in the small town. Natives, mostly. People he used to work with at the clinic before everything went to hell. They were happy to let give him supplies or him sleep on their sofas if he turned up at their door unannounced. Well, most of them were accommodating. When he opens the door and sees Will Graham standing there, he starts to think maybe Debbie doesn’t reciprocate his feelings after all.

He doesn't say anything in response. He quickly slams the door, his mind racing. Judging by the growing sense of dread, he already suspects it's too late for him. Like Sherlock, Will's name is infamous among his fellow resistance fighters. Still -- he makes a mad dash for the back door where his overnight bag is. Where his weapon is.

Dandy Mott | Resistance

[affluenza]

[ 1 - Safehouse ]

[Despite growing up as pampered as he did, Dandy adjusted to his new, much less luxurious life with surprisingly little trouble. He lost some of his childlike enthusiasm, replaced with that vicious hunger and rage that was always boiling just beneath the surface, but he didn't complain, and he only cried if he came back from a hunt empty-handed. He had bloodshed to keep him happy, and he absolutely did not want to be under the control of another overbearing authority. Not when he'd so recently earned his freedom from his mother.

The Safehouse was the one place where he could be himself instead of whatever character he'd made up that day. He called it 'backstage', because he could at least relax a little instead of keeping up the performance that was his new day-to-day life.

He could be spotted sitting, shirtless, slathering himself in blood from a plastic container. He always seemed to have some blood on hand nowadays. He needed to keep his secondary power active at all times if he wanted to stand a chance. He'd say the blood was from Soldats. That wasn't always the case, but he'd never admit that.]

I don't get it. I don't get it. How'd they get so many?

[Always a little lacking in empathy, Dandy saw the brainwashed Soldats as exceptionally weak-willed. They seemed happy, they seemed passionate. Passionate about being enslaved, imagine that! He didn't understand, so he sat, muttering to himself as he covered his chest in blood.]

[ 2 - Out And About ]

[Dandy was never the same person twice, when he went outside. He'd always be wearing a different full-face mask, with a different costume to go along with it. People who'd encountered him multiple times may recognize his general build and voice, and the fact that he was always fully costumed, but he tried his best to change his movement style and disguise his voice.

He was never big on the idea of a secret identity before this happened. He'd have to hide his crimes, sure, and he may be given some ominous nickname by the press, but having a consistent superhero (or supervillain) identity didn't appeal to him. Now, though, creating his daily character was a source of enjoyment for him in these otherwise bleak circumstances. His only source of enjoyment, really, except for pain and death and torture (that he inflicted on others, of course).

Today he wore a messy patchwork of sewn-together scraps of fur, a rubber mask resembling a wolf skull covering his head. His character, he thought, was a skilled hunter who lived alone in the woods and hunted all sorts of animals, laying traps and waiting alone in his log cabin. He didn't spare any humans who set foot on his property, either, and was something of a local urban legend. He has a raspy voice, like a whisper, and smelled of raw meat (Dandy, unfortunately, didn't have any raw meat on hand and thus was a little out of character). Dandy never bothered explaining his character to anyone else. That bit was for his own enjoyment only. To everyone else, he was a guy in a weird costume hunting for Soldats. Sometimes he took a companion with him from the Resistance, sometimes he fought alone.

Either way, he'd draw his hunting knife as soon as he saw someone who seemed to be looking for a fight. The knife was a distraction from his real powers - he didn't want to put all his cards on the table too quickly.]

[ Wildcard ]

[Feel free to add me on plurk to plot, or hit up my plotting post.

Also, one of Dandy's powers involves taking control of others, see here. If you're playing a Soldat and want to fight, let me know if it's okay to use!]

1

[allforyuu]

[Mika gives him a long look before he sits down. Being covered in blood is an unfortunate side effect of having to constantly fight, but slathering it on in front of a vampire is asking for something to happen. Mika sits very still and clenches his fists, looking at what Dandy's doing.]

Must've targeted the schools. They wouldn't even need bait that way.

Kang | Resistance | Heropa

[governorkang]

[Being depowered sucks. Ever since the Russians had taken over, Kang's been stuck as a baseline human - but he's still got decades of fighting and tactical experience at his disposal that he's more than willing to use to fight back.]

Passing Information

[He's still working as a Civil Engineer for Heropa. More recently, he's maneuvered his way into a position that has him traveling all over the city to check on active projects.

It's also perfect for playing the messenger.

All it takes is a passing in the street, a quick exchange of a folded up piece of paper. Or, a delivery/pickup of a seemingly innocuous object with a message hidden within. Sometimes, he stops at a coffee shop or cafe and strikes up a conversation with someone. He can get away with it easily; he's always been fairly gregarious.]

Mission

[This one's taken weeks to plan. Everything's finally fallen in place, and the operatives are waiting for the signal to move in. The target? A Russian truck acting as a mobile armory, parked in the street and normally heavily guarded. In just a few moments, though, there will be a changing of shifts.

He checks his weapon once more before nodding at the others.

It's time.]

Safehouse

[There's always work to do. Tonight, Kang is poring over recently updated maps of Heropa marking checkpoints, the laboratory facility, Resistance weapons caches. He's looking for weakpoints, particularly for the lab.]

Wild Card

[Got another idea?]

---

[OOC: Got a Soldat that's looking to kill someone? I'm up for it! Feel free to plot with me here!]

Safehouse

[mathemagier]

[Hermann collapses into a chair next to him and hauls his laptop on the desk with a sigh]

I've recorded aerial footage of the base. The security seems awfully tight. We may want to send in a decoy to test their defenses and coordination before we put a raid together.